


Dolor Hic Tibi Proderit Olim (someday this pain will be useful to you)

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Excessive Shakespearean References, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Masturbation, Melodrama, More Melodrama, No Incest, Suicide Attempt, incestuous themes, verbosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After recovering from a traumatic sexual assault, Sherlock's decision to remain at boarding school has unexpected consequences.</p><p>Contains enough internal recapping to be read as a stand-alone - just - but is actually an AU continuation of the much more lovingly constructed storyline and characters created by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins">dioscureantwins</a> in her amazing <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/27831">This Is Where I Began</a> series, and more specifically, takes up events after the end of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/751441/chapters/1819776"> this chapter</a> of "Perfer et Obdura".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Perfer et Obdura](https://archiveofourown.org/works/751441) by [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins). 



> Thanks as always to **evila_elf** for read-through and crit, and especially to **dioscureantwins** for her kind encouragement and corrections on top of letting me borrow her universe and abuse her characters. Obviously, I highly recommend her epic account of Sherlock's childhood and adolescence for the full backstory, and indeed, on general principles. Anyway, I was so captivated by a certain turn of events in Perfer et Obdura that I decided it _really needed_ a Mycroft/Sherlock diversion. I'm most grateful to her for letting me borrow her backstory and OCs to play with, even if I perhaps didn't put them _quite_ back where they belonged ;)

Everything was going to be all right.

None of the boys involved would ever touch him again. Mycroft’s instructions to the Head had seen to that, and besides, Sherlock now took all necessary precautions as a matter of course – he kept his door locked at night, was never the first to arrive or the last to leave a classroom, and had stopped wandering the grounds alone. Common sense told him such procedures weren’t strictly necessary; only a handful of the boys would even speak to him now, much less lay a hand on him, and they were the _nice_ ones, the _kind_ ones, easily rebuffed with a few harsh words. While still unavoidably surrounded by his schoolmates during the day, he was left mostly in peace. So at least in that sense, he had finally gained what he’d always wanted.

In hindsight all the fuss made over the incident had perhaps been a little exaggerated; it embarrassed him now. It was true that his bodily integrity had been violated, that the outrages of Le Feuvre’s tongue pushing into his mouth followed by the later indignities of Percy-Smith’s – _assault_ – had made him heave until his stomach was empty and his eyes red and sore with exhaustion. But throughout it all his _mind_ had remained untouched, immaculate. And his mind was really all that mattered.

Having thought it all through repeatedly over the past few months, he understood that no lasting damage had been done to his essential self, and therefore he was perfectly fine. That was what he told himself, and most of the time it was true.

Except that sometimes, when he was tired or distracted, he would still lose himself brushing his teeth for minutes on end, his mind frighteningly empty. He would come to with a start, throw his toothbrush down and rinse his mouth furiously before stamping off to bed. Or he would be crossing the quadrangle and feel an uncomfortable tingling at the nape of his neck, and look around to see Le Feuvre standing in the lee of a wall somewhere, watching him. Even though Le Feuvre always turned his face away immediately, Sherlock’s stomach inevitably gave a lurching twist at the reminder, the back of his throat burning with bile.

_It wasn’t really his fault, Sherlock. He did try to stop them. The rest have been expelled, but for him it would have been too severe a punishment, you understand._

Sherlock had understood Mycroft’s explanation well enough, and it had been his own choice to remain at the school, but the periodic glimpses of Le Feuvre still made him uneasy, cast a rippling shadow over him like a carrion crow circling the landscape high overhead. It wasn’t that he felt threatened; he could tell from the boy’s demeanour that he truly regretted everything that had happened. That his impulses had made him impose upon Sherlock a kiss he hadn’t wanted or expected; that Percy-Smith’s subsequent jealousy had done Sherlock such harm.

What Sherlock didn’t understand was why Le Feuvre looked at him at all. Surely he wanted to forget, every bit as much as Sherlock did. Even if it were true that he had once felt desire for Sherlock, that base animal lust that poisoned everything it touched, surely the sight of Sherlock on his knees at Percy-Smith’s mercy had destroyed it. He no longer bore even passing resemblance to a virginal Juliet; he was thoroughly spoiled now, damaged goods. Not that Sherlock would ever have done any of the things that Le Feuvre might have wanted, and by now he must know that too. Yet Le Feuvre was still _looking_ , sneaking his glances when he obviously thought Sherlock couldn’t see him, a strangely blank expression on his face. Sherlock wanted to scream at him to stop it, but he knew that would have been unreasonable. He was the one who had chosen to stay at school, so he had to _understand_. Only he didn’t.

The worst part was that despite knowing his reactions were entirely out of proportion, there was no one he could consult on the matter. It would only take one troubling word concerning Le Feuvre for Mycroft to reverse his decision and pull him out of the school completely. He didn’t want to write to Mr Talbot over it, either; despite his old tutor’s good advice and genuine concern, it had been humiliating enough that Mycroft had informed him in the first place. He had the nagging feeling that who he really needed to write to was John, with his weary face and kind eyes, but that was just ridiculous. John’s strengths were climbing roses and salad gardens; this wasn’t his area at all. Besides, Sherlock would likely have to spell out the full situation for his current discomfort to make sense, because he was fairly sure John didn’t know anything of what had happened to him. Part of him preferred to keep it that way.

 ***

The knock at his door came late one evening, as Sherlock sat at his desk buried in a biochemistry text. One a few years ahead of his actual schoolwork, of course; since his drug experiments on the student body had all gone to hell he had to do _something_ to keep himself intellectually occupied. He glanced at the clock. It was already well past eleven, but nowadays he rarely slept before midnight anyway. There was a stash of sleeping tablets in the back of his top drawer for the nights when they were most needed, but he hadn’t taken one for weeks.

“Yes?” he called, already on the alert. Had to be a boy, of course – a master or member of staff would have called Sherlock’s name and announced him- or herself immediately. The only question was how many of them there might be. Sherlock reached for the cricket bat that was wedged between the side of the desk and his bookshelf. Just in case. He felt better with the weight of it in his hand.

“Holmes? …Sherlock, please, it’s me.” Sherlock exhaled a long breath as he recognised Le Feuvre’s voice. At least it wasn’t one of those he might have cause to fear, such as a former client missing his supply of illicit pills, nor one of the overly sympathetic voices he’d come to despise. It seemed that Mohammed had come to the mountain after all.

“What the hell do you want?” He should just have told Le Feuvre to go away, but he couldn’t turn down the chance to have his questions answered at last.

“What do you think? To talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Just open the door.”

Sherlock rose and moved to put his ear against the door, listening, but could hear nothing through the thick wood, not even the sound of Le Feuvre’s breathing.

“Brought any of your _friends_ with you?”

“I’m not sure I have any left. You may have noticed.”

Actually, Sherlock hadn’t. Once it became clear that he was going to be left alone, he’d taken to automatically filtering out the existence of any fellow students who didn’t constitute threat, annoyance or puzzle, leaving only a handful of them who registered at all. However, if it were that obvious, it was likely Le Feuvre were telling the truth. Sherlock cautiously unlocked the door, muscles tensed, his senses on high alert.

Le Feuvre was indeed alone. He met Sherlock’s glare with both hands raised as though mocking him, but his face was set and serious. Sherlock stepped aside and gestured him through. He waved Le Feuvre over to sit on the edge of the bed, while he turned his desk chair around to face him. Then he waited, but Le Feuvre appeared to have suddenly run out of words. He only sat in silence with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, occasionally raising his eyes to Sherlock’s until Sherlock could bear it no longer.

“Well, what do you want? And why do you always keep _looking_ at me?”

“Why do you think?” Le Feuvre said, with unexpected venom. Sherlock had set the bat down, but now his hand instinctively reached back towards the handle.

“I’ve no idea.”

“For God’s sake.” Le Feuvre’s expression flared in disbelief before softening again at Sherlock’s genuine confusion. “You know, I didn’t expect you’d come back to school, after what happened. But when you did, I hoped you… I wanted you to know how sorry I was. For everything.”

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head, as though preventing the memory from taking hold. “That much is obvious from your demeanour. It doesn’t explain…”

“I can’t stop thinking about you, all right? I wish to god I didn’t. I wish you _had_ left so I didn’t have to see you every day.” Le Feuvre ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, I suppose not. You don’t really feel… anything that way, do you? You never have.”

“You’re referring to sex.”

Le Feuvre’s smile held a jagged edge of bitterness. “Yes, because that’s all an idiot like me could possibly think about. Although I suppose I am an idiot, to think that there was any chance you might… look, if I just wanted to get off with somebody, I never exactly had a shortage of opportunities. Before, anyway.”

He glanced up briefly, and Sherlock nodded. That at least was unquestionably true. Le Feuvre had been cast opposite Sherlock as much for his looks as for his acting – straight white teeth, square jaw, a rugby-honed frame nicely broad without being vulgar. He was one of the few blessed souls who could afford to prance about on a stage playing Romeo without copping more than a token amount of good-natured ragging from his mates.

“And maybe that was all I thought at first, but after we did the play... I knew you were different. Just from the way you kissed me, the way you used to look at me…”

“At _Romeo_ ,” Sherlock corrected, appalled at Le Feuvre’s sheer wanton stupidity, but it did no good at all. “It’s called acting.”

“I love you,” Le Feuvre blurted out, to Sherlock’s horror. He gazed at Sherlock imploringly as though waiting for a response, but none was forthcoming. “There, I’ve said it now. And if you would only let me… I know you probably think it’s all quite revolting, but you don’t really _know_ , do you? What it ought to be like.”

Sherlock stared at him, unwilling to admit to anything either way, and Le Feuvre took his silence for assent.

“Nothing you don’t want, I promise.” He rose from the bed and moved to crouch beside Sherlock, setting one hand lightly on his thigh, the other reaching up to brush his cheek.

It was too much. The casual intimacy of Le Feuvre’s gesture, gentle as it was, brought back all the memories Sherlock thought he’d successfully put away. Now they forced themselves into his consciousness once more, the shocking thrust of Le Feuvre’s tongue into his mouth somehow intertwining itself with the sickening musk and alcohol and sweat of Percy-Smith’s prick, irreducible flesh being pushed halfway down his throat, choking him all over again.

Sherlock instinctively recoiled up and out of the chair, pushing the back of his hand desperately against his mouth as the wash of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

“Don’t touch me.” It took considerable effort to force the words past the clench of his teeth. He concentrated desperately on taking deep breaths, forcing the bile back down into his stomach.

“Sherlock…” Le Feuvre began helplessly. “I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry.”

“I’m still not interested, and I’m not your fucking virginal Juliet, all right?” The anger rose up bright and clean within him, and he welcomed it, letting it burn away the shame, the humiliation. “She’s _dead_. Remember? You were there.”

Le Feuvre went pale as though he had been struck. He lifted his hands up again in surrender as Sherlock turned away from him.

“Just get out.”

“But I…”

“If you really _love me_ –” Sherlock made no effort to hide the revulsion in his voice, “then you’ll leave me alone. Find somebody else to stare at when you think they can’t see you.”

Le Feuvre stood there for several moments longer while Sherlock waited, face carefully averted from the pain in his eyes. Then he was gone, leaving Sherlock to breathe a deep sigh of relief. He shut and locked the door once more, and flung himself down on the bed. His concentration was completely shattered; he would learn nothing more from his textbooks that night.

***

The encounter with Le Feuvre proved a success, after a fashion. For the next few days Sherlock barely caught sight of him at all, and when he did, it was as usually as a figure in the distance, or standing amidst a group of boys. Despite his claim of having been deserted by his friends, it seemed he had regained them quickly enough when he cared to seek out their company again. Sherlock felt no envy, only gratitude that he, too, had finally moved on.

However, a week later Sherlock put in his usual token appearance at the dining hall for breakfast to find a palpable buzz at his table. The masters generally kept the noise at mealtimes down to a decorous rumble, but today there were only two seated up at the long table – Mr Beckett and the ancient Professor Lytton, and they were talking amongst themselves, seemingly ignoring the boys completely. On another day this might have resulted in slices of buttered toast flying through the air, but the students seemed every bit as distracted as the masters. Sherlock slipped unheeded into an empty place and poured himself a lukewarm cup of tea. He sipped it as the babble rose around him.

_Think we’ll get off class today?_

_Not bloody likely. Probably just get one of those serious talks. You know, “boys, you must remember that if you ever need someone to_ talk _to...”_

The other boy laughed. Now that Sherlock had woken up a little, the divisions in the room were clearer. Behind him the tables with the younger boys were having the usual arguments over runny eggs and favoured rugby teams and nothing in particular, but less vehemently than usual. The uppers were talking quietly amongst themselves, almost as subdued as the masters. It was mainly the middle forms around him that seemed most interested in deriving maximum entertainment value from whatever had transpired.

_Who found him?_

_Beeton, wasn’t it?_

_Yeah, and you notice he hasn’t turned up for breakfast either, what are the odds of that? Must be in the San._

_He is. Rolly said he saw him being taken off right after. White as a sheet. Shock._

_Is he going to make it?_

_Who, Beeton? Doubt it. Fat git, probably due for a heart attack anyway._

More laughter, some of it distinctly nervous.

Sherlock scanned the upper tables quickly, but the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach already told him what he would find. The substantial bulk of Beeton was indeed missing, but so was the slighter figure Sherlock was searching for. Le Feuvre. The boys Sherlock had last seen him surrounded by were picking at their food, heads bent over their plates, barely speaking at all.

_Said he’d never seen so much blubber blubbering before._

_You know what he’s like, the great poof. Probably had the fever for Fever, if you know what I mean._

The tea suddenly tasted even more foul than usual, and Sherlock set it down with a thump. Morons, the lot of them. Not that he had any reason to care what had happened to Le Feuvre; it was the principle of the thing.

When the bell rang for house meetings, he trooped out dutifully with the rest, already dreading the announcement Mr Simmons was no doubt already preparing to give them.

***

Sherlock had endured maths and was halfway through history when the note came. Mr Hazelton peered at it over his wire-rims before handing it back to the messenger and shooing him away.

“Holmes,” he said sharply. Sherlock looked up from somewhere deep within the British Raj, a place he might have ordinarily disdained, but today had found an unusually soothing place to be.

“Sir?

“Headmaster’s office, now.”

Sherlock put down his book without bothering to mark his place. A ripple of mocking “ooohs” swirled around him as he left, followed by the angry rap of Hazelton’s pointer on the surface of his desk.

 ***

The Head glanced up as he entered, looking tremendously ill-at-ease. He gestured towards Sherlock distractedly.

“Sit down, Holmes. I’m very sorry to be seeing you again so soon after the last time.”

The comment was grossly unfair – it had been a good four months since Sherlock’s last visit, but the Head clearly hadn’t recovered from such a dramatic start to his new appointment. On top of which, the unpleasant circumstances of their last meeting had hardly been _Sherlock’s_ fault. Still, it seemed pointless to argue.

“Sir.”

“I trust you are aware of the regrettable incident that has… befallen Le Feuvre.” The Head cleared his throat, and the fingers of one hand tugged at his collar as though it were trying to choke him.

“Yes, sir.” Such an interesting choice of words. _Befallen_. As though Le Feuvre had tripped over a carelessly mislaid pile of sleeping tablets, accidentally ingesting a large quantity in the process. It seemed that Sherlock had not been the only one having problems sleeping in recent months, nor the opportunity to take advantage of the fact. “Mr Simmons has explained.”

“Right, yes, good. Now, why don’t you tell me just what connection you might have to this incident?”

“Sir?” The uneasy feeling was back again, multiplied tenfold, although Sherlock managed to keep his face blank, puzzled. Surely Le Feuvre wouldn’t have been so _idiotic_ , so irrational, as to let whatever sentiment he might have felt for Sherlock overwhelm him so unreasonably. While Sherlock had long resigned himself to the profound depths of human stupidity, there always seemed to be new and untapped reserves to discover.

“You two haven’t…” it was obvious that the Head was struggling for something appropriately discreet, but Sherlock was not about to help him “…you haven’t been having some sort of row.”

“Not at all, sir. We’ve barely spoken since the start of term, which I was grateful for. After what happened.”

The Head nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Yes, that’s in accordance with what his friends have said. However, it means that I have no reasonable explanation for this.”

He opened the folder on his desk and retrieved a thoroughly crumpled piece of paper, on which someone’s ungainly hand had scrawled a few lines in black ballpoint. He handed it to Sherlock. “It was found in the wastepaper basket.”

_Sherlock,_

_I’ve tried but it’s no good. I can’t blame you for being who you are, but I don’t know_  
                   _how to change who I am either. I’m sorry that everything went wrong between us. I wish_  
                   _that it could have been different._

_Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast/would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest._

It had been left unsigned.

“Romeo and Juliet,” the Head murmured half to himself, as Sherlock turned the page over to avoid seeing the implied accusation in its words. “I swear that play is cursed.”

Sherlock was unable to restrain himself. “That’s Macbeth.”

“Yes, of course. So there’s nothing you’ve said or done that would explain...”

“No,” Sherlock lied firmly, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate even to himself. All he knew was that whatever he might or might not have caused, it was something that didn’t need sharing with this blithering, red-faced idiot. If he were going to explain himself to anyone, it would be to Le Feuvre and Le Feuvre alone.

“Very well then, you may return to class.” The Head held out his hand for the note, but Sherlock hesitated.

“Will he be all right?” he said.

“You needn’t concern yourself with his welfare. Matron will take good care of him until his parents fly back from Dubai.”

“May I... is he allowed visitors?”

“I don’t think that would be at all wise, do you?” The Head gave him a look of surprising sternness.

Sherlock did not quite meet his eyes as he finally handed back the note. “No, sir. I suppose not.”

***

Half an hour after lights out, Sherlock slipped into the San. The door to Matron’s inner office was open, light spilling out into the darkened area beyond, but the air was still and quiet. Directly in front of him stood four clinic beds, two to either side, but only one of them was occupied – Beeton clearly hadn’t warranted much more than half an hour’s fussing over and possibly a biscuit or three.

Sherlock moved silently over to the bed on the right, nearest Matron’s door, where the privacy curtain remained half-drawn against the light. The contours of Le Feuvre’s face were outlined in shadowy contrasts against the pillow. He was drawing slow, deep breaths, looking perfectly healthy; nothing wrong with him at all.

Sherlock called his name softly, but there was no change in Le Feuvre’s breathing, no flicker of awareness beneath his eyelids. He was most likely sedated for the night, an irony Sherlock did not fail to appreciate. The sheets were pulled up to his chest, but tucked around him so that his arms rested on the coverlet. His hands curved pale against the navy blue background, surprisingly delicate in comparison to the rest of his frame. Sherlock remembered the firm, dry warmth of Le Feuvre’s palm pressed against his, anchoring him in stillness even as Capulets in fancy dress swirled riotously around them. Instinctively he reached out to squeeze one limp hand with his own.

_And palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss._

“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing whether it would register somewhere in the depths of Le Feuvre’s consciousness, but he felt he owed him at least that much. He had prepared a letter of his own, which he tucked into the top pocket of the pyjamas Le Feuvre still wore. It had been extraordinarily difficult to know what to write, and he had sat for many minutes in the glow of his study lamp, pen poised motionless above the paper. Eventually he had bypassed sentiment completely and settled for what most needed to be said.

      _Leighton,_

_Don’t ever try that again. Your life is not your own; keep your hands off it._

_Sherlock_

He stood there in silence a moment longer, wondering at the eternal incomprehensibilities of human behaviour, and then left the room as silently as he had entered.

***

Le Feuvre had been the last of the boys who had witnessed his humiliation that terrible night, and with him gone, Sherlock thought that things might finally settle down for good. However, within the week he had been called into the Head’s office once more. They eyed each other warily over the broad oak table, surrounded by the decorations and achievements of old boys who had done their school proud. Daddy’s framed portrait hung high on the left wall; even Mycroft could be glimpsed in a group photo, considerably lower down. Even before the Head spoke, Sherlock knew he would never be joining them.

“Sherlock,” the Head began, and from that first note of false intimacy Sherlock could have more or less predicted what was to follow. _Regrettable incidents in the past few months; not your fault, of course; still, you seem to have something of a disruptive influence amongst the boys; the welfare of the school to think of; your brother has already been informed; we agreed by this coming half-term would be best._ Sherlock sat there and stared at his flabby pink face, at the lapels of his jacket and the collar of his shirt, and let him have his say.

“The school will, of course, supply you with a full recommendation and introduction letter to whichever schools you decide to seek entry to in future.”

There he finally stopped, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock nodded his understanding; if the Head expected some variety of gratitude from him, he was not about to get it.

“We truly are most sorry to see you go.”

Even Sherlock was forced to admire the hypocrisy of the man, the way one might admire the sheer tenacity of a blood-sucking parasite.

The Head frowned at his silence. “Well, do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” Sherlock said, standing up without bothering to wait for a dismissal. “When you were appointed, was the board _aware_ of the extent of your drinking problem?”

He stalked out of the room, leaving the Head speechless behind him. _That was completely inappropriate, Sherlock,_ he heard Mycroft remonstrating inside his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

***

As though the day hadn’t gone quite badly enough, that evening Sherlock finally reached the sanctuary of his room after prep to find Mycroft sitting on his bed, waiting for him. He was frowning into one of Sherlock’s history essays; the scribbles of red pen were visible from the doorway.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sherlock muttered, closing the door behind him.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s expression looked stretched thin.

“Why are you here?”

“I think that’s obvious, don’t you?”

“No, it’s not. It’s two weeks until half-term. I don’t even have to start _packing_ yet.”

Mycroft lifted up the newspaper lying on the bed beside him to reveal Sherlock’s own stash of sleeping tablets from the top drawer, now a cluster of white circles dotting the yellow duvet.

“You’ve no right to go through my things!” Thank god he’d left Mummy’s purloined tablets at home over the holidays, if only because he’d seen little possibility of continuing his blood tests this term.

“What was going on between you and Le Feuvre?”

“God, not you as well. _Nothing_.”

“Then why is the Headmaster so unequivocally determined to have you leave the school?”

“Because he’s an idiot. You know that as well as I do.”

“And these?”

“Matron kept giving them to me, and I haven’t needed them for a while, so I just… kept them. I didn’t push them on Le Feuvre or anyone else. That’s it, Mycroft, that’s all there is.”

“Kept them for what purpose?”

Sherlock shrugged. “In case I did need one or two eventually. Don’t be stupid, it’s not _contagious_.”

“Then tell me what happened with Le Feuvre, because clearly something did. The Headmaster isn’t a a complete idiot, Sherlock, but what happened to you last term puts him in something of a bind. He can’t start haranguing you for the truth without looking completely heartless.”

“Unlike you, you mean.”

Mycroft set aside the papers and clasped his hands around his knee, waiting. Sherlock finally flung himself into the desk chair.

"I can't help it if people insist on behaving irrationally," he said. He outlined Le Feuvre's visit to his room as briefly as he could, glancing away uncomfortably under the weight of Mycroft's scrutiny.

"I see," Mycroft said at last, more gently than Sherlock had any right to expect. "You'll recall I did warn you about this sort of thing." He paused, but for once Sherlock had nothing to say. "Much as you claim to despise it, you'll find a certain power comes from the ability to attract that sort of – attention. What use you make of it is, of course, entirely up to you, and I suspect you won't hesitate to take advantage when it suits you to do so. But Sherlock…"

He waited until Sherlock was finally obligated to meet his eyes.

"Remember that people can be more fragile than they look. Remember that sometimes it's as easy to be kind as to be cruel."

“Your homily has been duly noted, thank you. Will you leave now?”

“At the very least I need to know whether I should engage a tutor, or begin looking for another school.”

“I’ve had enough of school. I’d rather stay in London with you. Even if Mr Talbot won’t come back.”

“Very well.”

***

Sherlock was back on stage once more, in the heated glow of the spotlight, waiting. Somewhere to his right lay the blurred faces of an audience, hushed as though holding their collective breaths. Beside him stood Le Feuvre, trying to engage him in conversation, but Sherlock was uncomfortable, restless. He wasn’t enjoying the ball, or the wine, or Le Feuvre’s company, and looked around him in despair. All he understood was that he had to be patient, and everything would be made clear.

Noise and activity swirled around him, but it too was strangely muted, as though he were standing in a large plexiglass bubble. There was a discordant rise in the music, and a flurry of activity in the corner, and he looked towards it. Someone was approaching them, slipping effortlessly through the crowd, its striking form and figure a sharp contrast to the surroundings. Sherlock felt a small thrill of excitement until he realised who it was, and then he was simply puzzled. What was Mycroft doing here? Still, the party had clearly been a mistake – he wasn’t enjoying himself in the slightest, and so he might as well go home.

As Mycroft approached, Sherlock was aware of the sudden silence; even Le Feuvre had stopped talking. Mycroft stopped an arm’s length away. His face was serious, intent, in a way that made Sherlock shiver, and he stood frozen to the spot as Mycroft’s hand reached out to caress his cheek. Then he was babbling something which made no sense, pressing Mycroft’s hand against his own, keeping him at a safe distance. Mycroft disentangled himself easily, and then smiled and leaned in, close enough that Sherlock could feel the whisper of breath over his skin.

Sherlock understood then that Mycroft was going to kiss him, _would_ kiss him, because that was how it went, but what caught him by surprise was how badly Sherlock wanted to let him. Fear made him hesitate. He wanted to pull back and have a moment to think, to collect himself, but now the crowd was pressing in all around them, and there was nowhere to go.

He awoke with a start, damp with sweat, one hand rubbing frantically at his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

Half-term came, after what seemed an eternity of waiting. His bags had been taken downstairs and Mycroft was waiting in the drive. Having gathered the last of his things, Sherlock slung the holdall over his shoulder and took one last look around the room, which was now as devoid of personality as when he’d entered it; he’d even made the bed, the covers smooth and neat. For a moment he saw Le Feuvre, sitting on the edge of his bed, his face imploring, but when Sherlock blinked again he was gone.

He shut the door softly and walked away.

***

“Sherlock, this is Dr Thomas Galton,” Mycroft said.

The man beside him looked to be only in his thirties, but with the abstracted air of someone committed to a life of academia. He had a sweep of light brown hair, already greying at the edges, and wore jeans and sneakers paired with a vaguely genial expression.

“Tom.” The correction was offhand, as though Mycroft had accidentally mispronounced his name. He made no attempt to ingratiate himself with Sherlock or shake his hand. “Mycroft says you’re particularly interested in analytic and organic chemistry.”

“Yes.”

“You know the basics? Periodic table, acids and bases, galvanic cells, conditions of equilibrium…” he rattled off a list of topics, waiting for a response after each one. Sherlock had a passing grasp on most of them, but there were a few he was less familiar with, such as AAS.

“Ever used a mass spectrometer?”

“At school we’ve barely got beyond prisms.”

“I can get us some lab time at the University, or at Barts. All right? ”

“When?”

Mycroft had shaken his head at both of them and gone back to the office. It turned out that Tom possessed doctorates in chemistry, psychology, and for some inexplicable reason, linguistics, which tended to bias his ideas of what was worth teaching, but in an agreeable enough way. As Sherlock’s chemistry equipment began to accumulate, Tom compensated for the scarcity of lab time by setting up elaborate experiments on Mycroft’s stainless-steel kitchen bench, which Sherlock found highly entertaining from the point of view of both interest and nuisance value. He was, however, less enthusiastic about being asked to explain his results in French or Latin.

Sherlock settled quickly into his new life. In addition to his schoolwork, Mycroft had provided him with a computer of his own - one thoughtfully installed with a  newly-developed “web browser”, through which he could access the blossoming hyperlinks of the Internet. He’d had a little experience with bulletin boards, but this was an entirely new world waiting to be discovered. In his spare time he also took to wandering the streets of the city, observing with fascination what went on in the hidden corners and narrow laneways of London. Freed from stifling school routines, he felt as though he learned as much each week as he’d previously done in a month.

Although as enjoyable as the new challenges were, they came at a cost; the unsettling feeling that everything around him was changing far too quickly, that all the familiar things in his life were being systematically replaced, one by one. Despite the many unpleasant things that had happened at school, it still felt like one more piece of his childhood that he’d had to leave behind.

Instead of Mr Talbot, there was now Tom, and the ludicrous Mr Amati for violin. In place of Cook and Nanny there was Mrs Kaye, who came by every weekday to ‘do’ for them – cleaning, shopping, cooking if necessary. If Mycroft were home late, as he usually was, she would stay until he returned, the TV or radio a constant low drone in the background as she perched on the sofa with a cup of tea. Occasionally she was still there in the morning. In theory Mycroft should have been a familiar, grounding presence, but Sherlock soon found that he hardly saw much more of him than when he’d been at school. No wonder he'd found the flat so uncharacteristically sparse when he arrived; Mycroft barely used it.

***

“I trust ‘Tom’ is working out?” Mycroft asked one morning, three weeks after his arrival. It was Saturday, and the remains of toast and eggs lay in front of both of them.

“Fine,” Sherlock said.

Tom was pleasant and capable enough, although the very casualness of his manner had required some adjustment. He tended to treat Sherlock as though he were already an advanced university student, or an inter-disciplinary colleague in need of a refresher. Tutoring Sherlock allowed him to spend time with his young family without the pressure of administration, and he did it faithfully and well, but without the strictness of a schoolmaster or any of Mr Talbot’s paternal warmth.

“At least you haven’t been making his life difficult enough for him to voice a complaint.”

“So good of you to notice,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft frowned over his fork. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud; he was tired after having been up half the night online, poking around the less secure edges of a major banking corporation. Then there had been the effort involved in dragging himself out to face a cooked breakfast he hadn’t particularly wanted in the first place. And yet he’d done it all the same.

“Sherlock, if there’s a problem...”

“There isn’t.” He took a sip of his tea and pointedly focused on the tabloid in front of him, which was filled with strident coverage of coal-mine closures and the continuing fallout from the Black Wednesday currency crisis. It didn’t help; he couldn’t even pretend to be interested, especially with Mycroft looking at him like that. He reluctantly glanced up again. “I see Michael’s moved to London.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been following me?”

“No need. You’re obviously still together – his photograph’s in your bedroom, you’re wearing the watch he gave you. And you might be working long hours as a matter of course, but it’s still noticeable when you don’t come – back – at all.” He’d wanted to say _home_ , but that was wrong, this wasn’t his home, their home, any more than the school had been. “Where else would you go?”

“I see. And for some reason that bothers you.”

“It doesn’t _bother_ me, it’s just surprising to see so little of you. You’re usually more interfering than this, even from a distance.”

“I would have thought you’d be pleased. You are sixteen now, after all, and I have better things to do than babysit.”

“Yes, I’m sure clawing your way up the government ranks all day and shagging your boyfriend all night keeps you incredibly busy.” He uttered the vulgarity with precise disdain.

“What on earth is the matter, Sherlock?” At any other time, he might have found Mycroft’s look of mingled astonishment and outrage hilarious, but just then he didn’t have the energy to care.

“Nothing. Everything’s just _fine_.”

Mycroft didn’t press him, although he was wearing a look that suggested he was only biding his time. It wasn’t as though Sherlock could have justified his irritation anyway, since in truth he probably _would_ have loathed it if Mycroft had taken to hovering around him on his off hours.

Perhaps it was just that he seemed so different from the way he’d been before – distant, distracted, and Sherlock resented it. He knew Mycroft had had to grow up very quickly after the death of Daddy, but in some small way he stubbornly held onto the belief that Mycroft belonged to _him_. Not to his job, no matter how important it was, and not to Mummy, who had never properly appreciated him, and especially not to his stupid boyfriend, who could barely tell Brahms from Beethoven. It wasn’t that he missed having Mycroft around, _obviously_ ; it was more a rightful sense of indignation that as Sherlock’s guardian _pro tem_ , he was doing a very poor job of it indeed.

***

Sometimes, when the skies were grey and the day generally unbearable, he stood by the window and played whatever took his fancy. Today it was Prokofiev, _allegro pesante_. Wrapped in the music, he could almost pretend it was another Saturday afternoon at home – that Daddy was still alive and at work in his study, that Mummy was having a nice lie-down safely locked away, and after he finished there might be a game of chess with Mycroft, and scones still warm from the oven. It was a ridiculous, childish indulgence. When the last notes of the dance had died away, the flat was as empty as ever.

***

Sherlock sat on the low brick wall marking the park’s edge, and waited. On the face of it, he appeared thoroughly engrossed in his book – a rather sensationalised account of the Tobin murders – but in reality he was keeping a close watch on the row of Georgian terraces opposite. There was a certain individual he was really quite anxious to make the acquaintance of, but it had been a good fifteen minutes with no sign of his reappearance. What on earth was he doing in there, watching television?

By the time the twentieth minute had passed, Sherlock was musing that there must have been a back way out he’d missed. However, before he’d entirely made up his mind to go, the door of one of the terraces opened. Out of it came a man with a rolling suitcase, looking as though he were perhaps on the way to the airport. He was almost the very definition of nondescript, with baggy jeans, battered Nike trainers and a dark gray jumper. A cap was pulled down low over his face, but a gust of wind threatened to knock it off as he wrestled the suitcase down the steep flight of steps.

Sherlock was up and across the road in an instant.

“Would you like some help?” he offered politely. “Just the VCR then, was it, or did you manage to fit the stereo in as well? Must have taken you a little while to find the suitcase – I was wondering what kept you.”

The man froze for a moment at the foot of the steps, then took a better look at Sherlock.

“Piss off,” he muttered, and shouldered past him, trundling his bundle down the street at a pace just pushing the outer limits of “casual”.

“No, I was really quite impressed,” Sherlock said, keeping pace with him easily as he turned the corner. “The lock pick was so smooth, you almost looked like you actually lived there.”

He was ignored, but continued undeterred.

“The trainers are obvious fakes, of course, and not in very good condition either, bit of a giveaway. Hair’s too short as well. If you wanted to blend into the neighbourhood, you should have invested in some nicer clothes, and try not to walk like you just got out of prison.”

The side street was far quieter, although passers-by were still visible on the main road. The man finally stopped in the middle of the pavement to glare at Sherlock.

“Look, kid, if you knew all of that, then you should also know I’ve got no problem with shutting your mouth for you if you try and make any trouble. Now get lost before I...”

“Before you what? You’re not going to attack me, because that would only draw people’s attention, and that suitcase is so bulky that you’d never manage to get both it and yourself away unnoticed, so it would all be for nothing. On the other hand, if I were to shout for help, I probably would get us both noticed quite quickly.”

At least the man was bright enough to comprehend simple logic, although the creases on his face showed that it had taken considerable effort. “Then what the hell do you want?”

“I want to know how you did it, of course,” Sherlock said. When the man looked dubious, he added. “I’ll even pay you to teach me – and a bit more than you’d get for that second-hand VCR. All right?”

“Shows what you know.” The man grinned at him suddenly, revealing teeth that were similarly out of place in the neighbourhood. “Stereo might have been too big, but I got the necklaces and a Rolex in there just fine.”

***

Perhaps it was finally being away from the school, and the worst of his memories, but on top of all the external changes Sherlock found his body had evidently decided to stage its own rebellion as well. The dreams had begun again. Despite his declared revulsion towards sex, towards even the idea of being touched, there were mornings where he would wake from some half-remembered haze of longing to find his pyjamas shamefully damp and needing to be thrown into the wash immediately.

As if that weren’t enough, there were now even less convenient developments to contend with – unpredictable moments during the day when a wave of arousal would sweep over him, seemingly prompted by nothing in particular. It would wreck his concentration, and often force him to retreat for a quick wank in the nearest loo just to clear his head. At those times he did his best to keep his mind blank, to just get it over with as efficiently as possible, but his brain was no more compliant than his body, and insisted on supplying him with unwanted flashes of memory, various sights and sounds he would have rather suppressed.

The soft grunts of Fyfe-Rief getting himself off bestially in the next bed, something Sherlock had found utterly disgusting at the time, now seemed only to add fuel to the fire. The memory of Le Feuvre’s hands, his mouth, Romeo’s tender kiss pressed against Juliet’s lips as the rest of the cast faded away to nothingness. Le Feuvre crouched in front of him, his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Of course there were other memories entwined with those, darker, more dangerous ones, but his mind skittered quickly over them, ploughing them back under where they belonged.

Most disturbing was that not even Mycroft was excluded from his new depravity. In Sherlock’s mind he appeared with Michael, always with Michael, both of them still dressed as though home from school for the holidays. Mycroft's hands clutched at Michael’s back, his breathing thick and fast as their mouths pressed together repeatedly in the shadow of the trees. The memories mocked him repeatedly as he came – into his hand, a tissue, a handkerchief, a toilet bowl – shaking and gasping and wishing away the madness that had inexplicably possessed him.

***

“Hello, Sherlock. It’s been a while – my, you have grown, haven’t you?”

Sherlock had promised, _promised_ not to be rude, but within ten seconds of becoming reacquainted with Michael it was already taking considerable effort not to rise to his stupidity. He was aware in a purely theoretical way that Michael was actually considered quite bright, and currently forging his way up through the ranks of City bankers with a trajectory almost as dizzying as Mycroft’s, but he was so utterly _tedious_.

Biting back a sarcastic response, he managed a close-mouthed grimace that almost resembled a smile, and then muttered some inane greeting in return. Before they could manage anything further in the way of conversation, Mycroft had swiftly laid a hand on Michael’s arm and directed him towards the open kitchen. There, to Sherlock’s relief, Mycroft handed him an apron and put him to work mashing potatoes while Mycroft tended the simmering pot on the stove. Sherlock sat on the settee and pretended to watch television.

Having to endure this evening’s visit was the terrible, if somewhat predictable, outcome of his earlier outburst. Mycroft had obviously felt guilty enough to try and integrate Sherlock a little more into his life, but in a typically misguided fashion. Sherlock had done his best to explain that it wasn’t necessary, it was really _perfectly fine_ , but Mycroft had overridden him.

“It’s important to me, all right? That you should both at least try to get along. Please, Sherlock.”

He’d agreed, but with very bad grace. Now, as he watched Michael incompetently piping mashed potato onto the top of the pie dish, guided by Mycroft’s hands, he regretted it even more. When it was finally done, Michael laughed in triumph and gave Mycroft the kind of kiss that suggested he’d already forgotten Sherlock’s existence.

Dinner was even worse. Sherlock hated green beans, and wasn’t terribly fond of fish either, mixed with béchamel sauce or otherwise. Although of course the food hadn’t been chosen with him in mind, had it? The mashed potato would have been acceptable enough, except that the memory of Mycroft pressed up against Michael as they’d prepared it made him feel slightly ill. As it was, he did more of pushing food around his plate than eating it, knowing Mycroft would be unable to say a word in front of his guest.

Not that he was paying Sherlock much attention anyway. At first there had been a little stilted conversation back and forth about Sherlock’s schoolwork, and how he was finding London, and then Michael had brought up Black Wednesday – clearly not for the first time – and that had set them both off. For Mycroft, the day had been like watching a car crash in slow motion as the Treasury had unsuccessfully tried to prevent the massive sell-off of the pound, while Michael’s bank had made millions in currency trading by betting on the Bank of England to fail. While Sherlock was thoroughly bored by the subject, he didn’t miss the ripple of tension that lay below the amiable banter.

When dessert was over and Michael finally dispensed with, Sherlock stood with his back against the kitchen bench and watched as Mycroft wiped down bench tops and gathered plates.

“You could just leave it for Mrs Kaye. She won’t mind,” Sherlock commented. Their housekeeper was a quiet, colourless woman who always seemed a little in awe of both Sherlock and his brother, and cleaned up after even Tom’s most spectacular chemistry demonstrations without a word of reproach.

“It wouldn’t kill you to tidy up after yourself.” Mycroft picked up Sherlock’s plate, which had hardly been touched, and reluctantly scraped the contents into the kitchen bin. “Or to eat once in a while.”

“You’ve become so revoltingly domestic. You’ll be ‘hoovering’ next.” He inflected the word with distaste.

“Someone has to, and you should be thankful for Mrs Kaye. Don’t act as though such things are beneath you.”

“I don’t think it’s _beneath_ me.” Sherlock moved swiftly out of the way as Mycroft began stacking the dishwasher. “ Unlike you, I just don’t see the point in wasting my time on things which are tedious, tiresome, and to which I’m plainly _not suited_.”

He saw Mycroft grimace as his words struck home.

“Why don’t you just come out and say it?” Mycroft stuck a handful of cutlery in with more force than strictly necessary and turned towards him, arms folded.

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock said defiantly. “The only thing I don’t understand is why you’re _still_ enamoured of him. It’s been what, four years? Five? Surely the novelty’s worn off by now.”

He was prepared for Mycroft to be angry, expected it, but Mycroft just stared at him in a way that just made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“What?”

“‘Novelty’? Is that really how you see it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe you enjoy having sex on a regular basis, but surely that’s not enough to compensate for the rest.”

“God forbid that one day you might actually have feelings for someone.”

“I very much doubt it. And if I did it wouldn’t be for someone so… unsuitable. And annoying.”

“You never did approve of him,” Mycroft said wryly, and Sherlock flushed at the reminder of how upset his twelve-year-old self had been, terrified at the idea that Mycroft might have transferred all his affections for Sherlock to this unwelcome stranger.

“With good reason.”

“Sherlock…” and suddenly Mycroft had that pitying expression in his eyes again and Sherlock no longer wanted to hear anything he might have to say. “I know you went through some terrible experiences at school, but I hope that in time you’ll find someone you can stand to be with.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Thank you, but if it means putting up with idiots like that, I’d much rather be alone.”

***

He lay in bed that night, his hand wrapped loosely around his cock as though to prove his point. Just because Mycroft needed someone, it didn’t mean _he_ did. Alone was predictable. Alone was safe. He could take care of his body’s needs by himself, so why would he ever need anyone else? He couldn’t imagine.

However, much as he despised his body’s weakness, it had also reawakened his curiosity. He knew intellectually that this phase of intense arousal was perfectly normal, that even Mycroft had indulged in the same relief, just as he’d been doing the day Sherlock had knocked unthinkingly on his door. Although knowing it and believing it were two very different things. Mycroft was so usually calm and composed that it was difficult to imagine him like this, his hand circling his cock, running up and down the shaft in long, firm strokes the way Sherlock was doing now. Difficult to imagine his mouth falling open in pleasure, making soft, incoherent sounds a world away from his usual crisp sharpness.

And then suddenly Michael was there too, unasked-for, unwanted, but he had to be, because he was the only one who could do those things, who was _allowed_ to do those things to Mycroft. Sherlock’s mind insisted on supplying the details from his own experiences, twisting them mercilessly. He imagined Mycroft thrusting his tongue into Michael’s mouth exactly the way Le Feuvre had done to him, but instead of protesting, Michael clung even closer to him, their bodies pressed desperately against each other.

Then Michael was on his knees in front of Mycroft, taking his cock slowly and reverently into his mouth as Mycroft’s eyes closed. _Oh._ Sherlock found it increasingly hard to breathe as he stroked himself faster, imagining Mycroft’s sounds of pleasure as he pushed repeatedly into Michael’s mouth. Sherlock’s stomach twisted in mingled distaste and desire, and he stifled his own cries as pulse after pulse spattered across his bare skin. Then he was alone with his thoughts once more.

***

Through either blithe optimism or gross misjudgement, Michael’s flat was situated in the Docklands area, in the shadow of the towering new monstrosity of One Canada Square. The area had been bombed to rubble during World War II, but hardly looked much better now; the handful of completed residential developments appearing as pathetically small dots in the midst of a gigantic construction site. As Sherlock approached the apartment building, even a quick glance at the number of uncurtained windows showed that the glossy complex was still half-vacant.

He had already prepared a cover story for bluffing his way into the building, but as it turned out, there was no need. It wasn’t entirely clear whether the building’s intercom system had ever been functional, but right now security consisted of a thick, doubled-over piece of cardboard shoved in the bottom of the crack between the building’s sturdy front door and its frame. They might as well have just propped the thing open, although admittedly that would have been more obvious from the street.

Sherlock slipped through the entryway, regrettably forgetting to replace the cardboard. There was a handy guide to apartment numbers on the wall, and a peek into the lift showed that it wasn’t keycarded to residents, so he took it up to the third floor. Despite his carefully chosen outfit of blue overalls, a cap and a paint-spattered holdall – just a young lad doing a spot of maintenance, nothing to see here – he hadn’t encountered a soul. Even though he’d chosen the mid-afternoon precisely because he’d expected it to be quieter, it was still a little disappointing.

The lock on Michael’s door posed his first real challenge, but Morrie had been well worth the extortionate amount Sherlock had ended up paying him. Lock-picking had proven to be more of a physical skill than an intellectual one, feeling for the right combination of pressures and angles, and Sherlock had worked at it the same way he’d approached the violin – practice, practice, practice. It was every bit as satisfying when it came off, though. He imagined the confusion in his wake; the succession of people who would arrive home to find their doors tampered with, yet their belongings untouched.

He'd come prepared for a challenge, but in keeping with the rest of the building the lock proved more show than substance, and Sherlock was inside in under two minutes, not bad for a beginner. While he neither knew nor cared much about décor, the apartment proved a surprisingly pleasant space, more tasteful and welcoming than he might have expected. A moment later he sourly wondered whether this was further evidence of Mycroft’s priorities.

However, the living room revealed only a thoroughly pedestrian collection of objects, all apparently belonging to Michael – he was partial to Tom Clancy, Oasis and his own sporting trophies – and the kitchen was little better, although Sherlock’s rummage did uncover a few odd implements whose purpose eluded him, like the bulbous metallic tripod that squatted on the workbench. It was either a gratuitous kitchen sculpture or possibly the world’s most pointlessly aesthetic juicer.

The bathroom contained more startling discoveries. The mirrored cabinet slid open to reveal the standard set of items – single toothbrush in a glass, toothpaste, deodorant, razor (disposable, charming), nail clippers, flannels, and various packets related to hangovers or headaches or muscle strains. At first it seemed that the drawers of the vanity held mostly spares and extras – soap, toothpaste, toilet paper – but in the back of one Sherlock also found one of Michael’s disposable razors, the moisturising edge slightly worn away, and a box of tampons still half-wrapped in plastic, of which two were missing. Unexpected, to say the least.

A cursory rummage of Michael’s bedroom – Sherlock had no desire to stay in it any longer than necessary – only confirmed his suspicions. The personal items could in theory have belonged to a sister or friend, unlikely as it was, but there was a particularly incriminating Polaroid tucked into a book in his bottom bedside drawer. For a moment Sherlock considered taking it as evidence, but decided against it. His actions were going to be difficult enough to explain to Mycroft as it was.

***

“There are emails, too,” Sherlock added. “She works in marketing, six floors down. Their server’s really quite badly secured; I wouldn’t be banking with them any time soon.”

“It’s an investment bank. No depositors,” Mycroft said absently, as if that were what really mattered.

Sherlock had finally run out of damning things to say. He was actually quite surprised that Mycroft had let him go on as long as he had, without attempting to override or interrupt. “Well?”

“Is that it?”

“Did you want a video?”

“I’m very impressed by your singular dedication to this… project. I think you’ve overlooked one obvious thing, though.”

“And what’s that?” He hadn’t expected Mycroft to believe him immediately, but this stubbornness was absurd. “DNA evidence?”

“The fact that contrary to your preconceptions, sentiment doesn’t actually make you stupid.”

There had been few unshakeable articles of faith in Sherlock’s life. He’d been disabused of both God and Santa Claus quite early on – his family had done their best, but the ideas hadn’t held up long under sustained six-year-old questioning. Still, he’d maintained a cautiously justified belief in a number of things – Daddy’s affection, Mr Talbot’s benevolence, logic, gravity, the periodic table. However, up until now he’d mostly taken his perceptions of Mycroft for granted, which turned out to be the most dangerous kind of belief – the kind you hadn’t consciously realised you held.

“You already knew.”

“How could I not?”

Sherlock was silent then, reprocessing. He truly hadn’t thought, had assumed Mycroft was subject to the same kind of dangerous delusions that Le Feuvre had been subject to, only with more common sense and intelligence. Once he knew the truth about Michael, surely he would realise his mistake. However, this was even worse. He still couldn’t quite believe that anyone would dare treat Mycroft this way, much less that he would accept it.

“You always did have a surprisingly idealistic streak,” Mycroft said, reading his expression accurately.

“But that you would allow....”

“Sherlock, it’s a simple fact of life that in some occupations one’s career prospects are much enhanced by operating within a rigid set of criteria. The right education, the right clothes, the right tastes…”

“…and the right girlfriend.”

“Exactly. Otherwise it would only result in uncomfortable social situations, and a reputation for evasiveness. Michael’s ambition is equal to mine, except that he needs to pay somewhat more attention to his public image.”

“So does _she_ know? About you?”

For the first time, Mycroft did look uncomfortable. “Of course not. That would threaten the entire endeavour, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock had finally regained a little of his equilibrium. “And you’re fine just putting up with it.”

“I accept the necessity of the situation.”

“That’s not exactly a yes.”

“And I really don’t see why this is any of your business. You ought to have far better things to do than pry into my love life. I’ve held my tongue so far, but I think you owe me an explanation. Why does this matter so much to you?”

It was a question Sherlock had been successfully avoiding up until now, because he didn’t know how to answer it himself. His dislike of Michael was only a tell-tale ripple across the surface of a murky lake in which darker thoughts twisted and turned. Mycroft was his brother, as unreachable as the distant shore. He couldn’t afford to think of such things. He only stared dumbly, miserably, until Mycroft sighed and extended a tentative hand towards him, resting it gently on his forearm. The touch seemed to burn through the fabric of his sleeve, but he didn’t move, couldn’t.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around more, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I thought… I thought that after everything that happened at school you’d want to be left alone, to have some freedom to grow up without having someone monitoring your every move. Maybe I was wrong. Tell me what it is you want.”

“I...” Sherlock began, and stopped. Faced with his instinctive reaction to Mycroft’s question, he couldn’t escape the obvious conclusions any longer.

In his arrogance Sherlock had been sure he was too cold, too clever, to let lust and sentiment ever get the better of him, the way it did other people. However, it seemed he was already fully engaged in proving himself wrong. As much as he might have despised Le Feuvre and Mycroft for pursuing the objects of their affections in defiance of common sense, he was quickly proving himself more idiotic than either of them. _I want you to love me. The way you love him._ But to Mycroft he was still a child; worse, he was family, which made Sherlock untouchable by the only person he thought he could bear to have touch him.

Mycroft was still waiting for an answer, his eyes kind and patient.

“Nothing.” Sherlock found the strength to shake off Mycroft’s hand, gather himself and his thoughts again. “I’m sorry. I should have realised sooner about Michael. It’s fine.”

***

It wasn’t.

Now that realisation had taken hold, it was impossible to dislodge. Sherlock could push it to the back of his mind and forget for hours at a stretch, especially during the day, but nights and mornings were more difficult. Especially since Mycroft was now making a point of coming home for dinner to see him as often as he could, even if he sometimes left again straight afterwards. Sherlock made no attempt to avoid him; he sat there night after night and ate whatever was in front of him as though performing some ritual act of self-flagellation. His abstraction was obvious, and yet Mycroft had not asked again. It was impossible to tell how much he might suspect.

It was even worse late at night, when Sherlock’s brain and body actively sought to conspire against him. When he thought too long about Mycroft, it inevitably ended with his hand curled around his cock, and his face flushed hot with shame and desire. At those times he longed for Mycroft’s mouth on him, the touch of his hands, everything about him that was so very familiar and yet unknown. He was still revolted by the memory of what Percy-Smith had forced upon him, but if it were something Mycroft wanted, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could bring himself to do it. He imagined Mycroft beside him, or sometimes on top of him, not knowing exactly what it would be like; it only mattered to him that he was there. He wondered what Mycroft looked like when he came.

In between times, he despised himself for his weakness, and vowed that it would stop. However, the idea proved easier than the reality, as though every unkind thought he’d ever had about the foolishness of human nature was gleefully rebounding upon him. However, he still had his pride. He managed to muster enough enthusiasm for his studies that neither Tom nor Mr Amati had any cause for complaint. He even tidied up occasionally, although if Mrs Kaye noticed, she kept her opinions as much to herself as she had always done.

Still, sometimes he woke in the early morning and found himself drawn unbidden to Mycroft’s room, where he would stand and peer through the half-open door at the form under the blankets. His eyes would gradually adjust to the warm darkness until he could make out the blue-striped curve of a shoulder, the soft rise and fall of Mycroft’s breathing. He imagined slipping in beside Mycroft, who would not recognise him, would mistake him for Michael, perhaps, and let Sherlock do everything he wanted without question. However, he had not yet fallen into delusion. He only stood and watched in silent, timeless purgatory until some change in the light or shift in Mycroft’s position broke into his thoughts and sent him back to bed. On those nights he usually missed the glimpse of Mycroft he might have caught at breakfast, but it was worth it.

It was obvious to Sherlock that this couldn’t go on much longer, but he kept avoiding any kind of resolution, day after day, as November turned into December, and the threat of Christmas loomed. Sherlock would have preferred to ignore its existence completely, but his tutors and Mrs Kaye would want time off, and Mycroft would insist on returning home for at least part of the holidays, probably with Michael in tow. The season promised to be even more unbearable than it usually was.

***

Mrs Kaye had collected the mail as always, and Sherlock found the envelope on the kitchen bench after Tom had left for the day. The stationery was familiar enough – a heavyweight cream-coloured envelope with the school’s crest in the top left corner, the sort that normally contained school fees and reports. There were two significant anomalies, though: the name and address had been neatly written in blue pen rather than printed onto a standard mailing label – feminine hand, middle-aged – and it was addressed directly to Sherlock rather than to Mycroft. Not official business, then.

He further noted the odd distribution of weight as he picked up the envelope – its contents slid to the side, as a letter would not have done. It proved to be a Christmas card, its sealed contents already made obvious by the green and red edging around the envelope. It had been addressed to Sherlock care of the school, and a blank “With compliments” slip bearing the school crest was attached with a paper clip. The stamp bore a Cheshire postmark, already a week old.

There was no return address on the back, but he already knew who it was from. The card was a paragon of mawkish sentiment, displaying the picture of a snow-covered tree upon which a robin red-breast was perched, evidently singing for all it was worth. Inside was more triteness, written in a familiar hand.

_God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage_  
 _to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference._

_Merry Christmas, Sherlock._

Sherlock stood and contemplated the unsigned message for far longer than it deserved, wondering whether Le Feuvre would have sympathised with his current predicament, or deemed it only served him right. For a moment he wished he were a child again, when things had seemed so much simpler.

He glanced over the handwriting one last time, noting a strength and decisiveness which had been lacking the last time he’d seen it scrawled across a crumpled sheet of paper. Oddly reassured, he tucked the card neatly back into the envelope and then threw the entire lot into the bin.

***

That night he awoke in the early hours once more, but this time he crossed the threshold and ended up beside Mycroft’s bed, closer than he’d ever dared before. His hand reached out, but before he could touch his shoulder, Mycroft’s eyes opened. He half-rose on one arm, showing none of the fogginess of sleep, and his very alertness made Sherlock wonder how many of his previous visits Mycroft might have registered after all.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed, his back braced against the comforting heat of Mycroft’s body. It was easier like this, to say what needed to be said. He glanced back to check that Mycroft was paying proper attention, and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Mycroft, I’ve decided… I want to go back to school next year. Whichever one you like. I don’t mind.”

He heard Mycroft exhale softly in the silence. There was a long pause, during which Sherlock remained absolutely still, resolute.

“All right,” Mycroft said finally. “I know you haven’t been entirely… happy here, and I think it’s for the best. You’ve clearly given it some thought.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

The blankets shifted as Mycroft pulled himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs out beside Sherlock’s. There was only an inch of space between them. The room was warm enough, the heater’s light a small red glow in the darkness, and yet Sherlock shivered as Mycroft’s hand reached out to his, covering it.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, slowly and carefully. “That things haven’t been – can’t be – the way you might have wanted.”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated numbly, unable to draw his hand away. “I know.”

“Look at me, Sherlock. Please.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock tilted his head, as difficult as wading through cement.

“I want you to understand that I do in fact… love you. As a brother. I always will.”

Then his arms were around Sherlock and he was twelve again, feeling lost and abandoned even as he clung to Mycroft and did not cry. Of course he’d known. Sherlock never had been able to keep anything from him for any extended period of time. Mycroft simply knew him too well. Their conversation over Michael’s supposed infidelity echoed in his head: _How could I not?_

“I was so stupid,” Sherlock said, rubbing his face fretfully with the edge of his sleeve. “Remind me never to fall in love.” _Again_ , he did not add.

“I’m not sure you ever get a choice.”

“Well, I’m going to do my best to avoid it,” Sherlock said, and he sounded so ridiculously haughty to his own ears that he couldn’t even resent Mycroft’s smile.

“Speaking of which, I thought you should know,” Mycroft said, abruptly serious again. “I’m afraid Michael won’t be joining us this year. I spoke to him last week, but he apparently has… other plans, at least for the holiday season. I might have told him he was welcome to them.”

“I’m not sorry to hear it.”

“I didn’t expect you would be – but in a way, neither am I.”

Mycroft looked more thoughtful than sad; perhaps some of Sherlock’s objections had sunk in after all. Either way, Christmas was suddenly looking up. Most of Sherlock’s earlier tension had drained away, and he was more relaxed now, sleepy. He leaned back into Mycroft’s arms, which continued to wrap protectively around him.

“Mycroft…”

“Mmm?”

“Would you do one more thing for me, since I’m going away again? Just… just once. So I know what it’s like.” He remembered Le Feuvre’s earnest, hapless face. “What it _should_ be like.”

“Sherlock, I thought you understood…”

“Just a kiss. That’s all. Please, Mycroft. I promise I’ll never ask again. For the data.”

Mycroft looked at him for a long time. It was almost possible to see his brain working away, calculating the dangers, evaluating possible outcomes and their likely consequences. Sherlock made no attempt to interrupt him. He simply waited.

“All right,” Mycroft said. His voice was calm enough, but his tongue flicked out and moistened his lips. “Just this once. Come here, then.”

This time it was easier for Sherlock to turn his head, tilt his face up to Mycroft’s. At first it felt little different, physically, from the staged kisses he’d shared with Le Feuvre – Mycroft’s mouth was slightly open against his, the press of his lips firm but gentle. It was the rush of emotion that startled him, made his hands tighten on Mycroft’s forearms as he breathed a single wordless sigh into his mouth. So this is what it felt like to kiss someone you loved. It was so much less than all the things he’d thought he wanted, and yet more than he’d ever expected.

It was Mycroft who pulled away, immediately running a nervous hand over his mouth. His eyes were dark, his breathing slightly quickened. However, seconds later he was seemingly composed again, studying Sherlock intently.

“All right?” he said.

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. He was busy committing every last detail to memory, in the small, faint hope that some day he might have use for the comparison.

“Yes. Thank you,” he said finally.

Mycroft gave him a small, cautious smile, and nodded.

“I think we both need to get back to bed now,” Mycroft said. He hesitated, then pressed his lips briefly against Sherlock’s hair before letting go of him. Then he moved around Sherlock to settle himself back under the covers again.

Sherlock stood up as though to leave, and then sat straight back down again.

“Mycroft?” he said, and his voice was deliberately plaintive.

“What?”

“Can I sleep here with you tonight?”

“Sherlock…”

“Just to sleep. Nothing else. Please?” He hadn’t asked anything like it since he was twelve, but he willed Mycroft to remember, to understand. Perhaps that was why he had fixated on Mycroft all along, knowing that he could fantasise all he wanted, but that Mycroft would never allow him to go further.

Mycroft shook his head, but let Sherlock crawl under the covers anyway, and then wrapped an arm around him once more. Only then did Sherlock realise how tired he truly was, how much strain he’d been under these past few weeks. He burrowed deeper into the blankets, his eyelids already growing heavy.

“Promise,” he said, his hand finding Mycroft’s where it lay lightly over his breastbone. He interlaced their fingers together. Safe.

“I love you,” Mycroft said against his neck, so softly that he might almost have imagined it.

“You too,” Sherlock murmured. Perhaps it was true that Mycroft could never love him as anything other than a brother, but for now that felt like enough to be going on with. Sherlock sighed deeply and let the wave of drowsiness finally drag him under.

Everything was going to be all right.


End file.
